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historiaxvanserra · 1 year

Text

Ruin

Pairing: Azriel x reader

Summary: Velaris is beautiful but under all the pomp and ceremony it is a den of hedonistic desire. Since you arrived you have tried to hide from that desire. But tonight, Azriel just might be your ruin.

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: drinking, dirty talk, teasing, unprotected sex, pinv, public sex, rough sex, slight blood kink if you squint and I think that's it.

This is the first part of a 2 part fic but they can be read separately. Part I here.

The room is ablaze with electricity. It’s humming and pulsing and coming alive with the movements of the patrons. It’s palpable. The air is thick and sweet, tainted with something darker. The marble floor is awash with dancing bodies and you find yourself entranced in the sway of the waltzing sea, the people pressed against one another twisting and contorting, like columns of technicolour seafoam. Your body moves in similar a similar fluid motion as the current sweeps you up. For a few moments, you allow yourself to get lost in the primal give and take of the dancing tide and the sound of hypnotic music is enough to calm your jittering nerves.

The lavish reception at Rita’s seems exhume decadence. The glittering chandeliers cast the room in an amethyst glow and as you wade through the crowds the eyes of males and females alike seem to stand in silent judgment, lingering over the curve of your hips and unusually low neck line. In makes you feel exposed. As though you are a sacrificial lamb and they hungry wolves baying for blood.

The world of The Night Court is a world away from your home; a colourful oasis into which you had been welcomed with open arms. But, under all the grandiose and ceremony of Court life, Valeris was a den of iniquity. One you felt compelled to avoid lest you surrender yourself to your most base desires. Tonight, though you had acquiesced to Mor’s pleading and Cassian’s knowing glances and agreed to be initiated into the seedy underbelly of Velaris’ nightlife.

Or as Cassian so eloquently put it to Nesta, We need to get her laid.

In reality, you don’t think that their goal is to get you laid at all. Only to tear down the walls you had built so tall that no one could seem to climb. It’s touching really that your friends want you to feel comfortable enough around them that no want is too taboo to confide in them but growing up where you had untamed desire is a dangerous vice and lust a short-lived fire that threatened to burn those walls to ash.

The mirrors are hung in a long line along the back wall of the club, their reflections felt like a taunt. Like holding up a mirror to your own perverse desires.

Looking at your own reflection you hardly recognised yourself; the chandeliers shadowed light becoming entangled in the siken tresses of hair that is usually tightly braided, now falls freely, and the dress that Mor had selected melts into the curves and contours of your body in a way that leaves little to the imagination. This woman before you is not the lamb she is the wolf.

In your inebriated state, you press your empty glass flush against your chest, the cool glass drawing the fire to the surface of your skin, as you observe the main room from your spot in the corner. By now, the rest of the Inner Circle has trailed one by one into the private lounge next door looking for a reprieve from the glare of neon light and the rhythm of the music. The alcohol had done its job in setting your throat ablaze and the fae wine pressed its burning kisses against your skin, staining your cheeks with a gentle blush.

It’s then that your eyes find Azriel. He’s standing against the bar with a Female whose face is concealed from view, she’s lithe and willowy and you try to fight the feeling of jealousy that burns through you then. Try not to think about him taking her hips in his beautiful hands as she thrusts lucidly in his firm grip. Or what her garish cobalt dress will look like on his bedroom floor.

You’d been a goner from the moment you arrived in Valeris with Feyre and Lucien. For months you have hidden away from him. Played the meek and studious exile all the while longing from afar for a man who you think you could love if only he’d let you.

Tonight though, you feel as though your inhibitions had been utterly compromised. Perhaps its the alcohol running hot in your veins or the way he looks at her under his darkening amber gaze but it’s a deadly combination of wanton desire and weeks of unspoken longing and the threat of ruination lingers on your mind.

Azriel is handsome in the way an angel might be; lust incarnate and devastatingly beautiful, with an almost sordid quality to him, that hinted at unspoken sacrilege. He looks at home here, in the thick of it, soaked in the neon glow, his signature sly smirk ghosting his lips. In these indulgent moments, you think that he is the only thing in this room worth looking at. In the cool light, he looks almost ethereal. His onyx hair is tousled purposely, the longer strands of hair curling away from his face and his eyes look like molten gold in the shadowed light. He has since shed his outer tunic and was left in a white undershirt, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows and in the summer heat, it clings to him like a second skin.

It’s hard not to think about him like this; he’s sex personified. He’s built like some great Adonis with a face that could launch a thousand ships. But he’s not just beautiful. That’s the complicated part. He’s more than meets the eye; he’s dark and brooding, with a kind heart and sad eyes. He makes you want to sink to your kness and pray to him in reverence until he sees in himself what you see in him.

You find yourself turning over Rhys’ words in your head. Azriel has a great many lovers. He’s just better at hiding it than the rest of us.

Okay, so maybe he isn’t that lonely but none of them ever last that long. Of that you are certain.

It’s Cassian’s laughter that rouses you from thought as Mor motions for you to follow her into the next room. You trail behind her somewhat reluctantly as she takes your hand in her own. You venture deeper into the masses of bodies as Mor tightens her hold on you.

You cast your eyes over to Azriel once more only this time he is looking back. From here he is only an arm's length away as he shouts over the music. Only it’s futile and his shouts fall on deaf ears. Instead, you gesture to him that Mor is here. You point at the entrance to the private room and he seems to nod in acknowledgement before holding up a finger to you. Only before he can finish signalling to you, Mor’s gentle tug on your arm sees you gone from him once again.

Having reached the other end of the bar you and Mor separate before venturing further into the private area of the club.

“There you are,” Rhys says, opening his arms to you and drawing you into a friendly hug, “we wondered where you might have gotten to.”

The private room of Rita’s is reserved just for the Inner Circle only. It’s smaller than the main room but more inviting. The chandelier casts the room in a honeyed glow and the walls are hung with rich oil paintings and portraits rather than the mirrors and cold, neon light of the main bar. It’s quiet and cool and the frosted glass doors offer some privacy from the club beyond.

You shift uncomfortably as the group looks at you expectantly for an explanation for your absence but you offer none. Your throat seizes and the familiar heat of embarrassment pools in your stomach.

“Never mind,” Nesta says reassuringly as she pats the empty seat next to her, “you’re here now.”.

Cassian casts you a sidelong glance before opening his mouth to speak.

“We’re going to play a game,” he says, the devilment clear in his voice, “do you want to join us or just stare at Az all night?”.

“Sure, I’ll play,” you say opting to repress the thought of Azriel from your mind lest you look like even more of a lovestruck fool.

The booth in the middle of the room is a large, crescent moon shape, the seats are upholstered with emerald green leather and the table is a complimentary black. The table itself is high and round and set with enough drink to supply an army. Rhysand and Feyre are seated in the middle of the booth, his arm draped over her shoulder in a lazy show of affection and they share one cup of wine. Cassian and Nesta are sat to the side of Feyre and Mor, Amren and Emery pile into the opposite side next to Rhys.

You pay them little mind as you slide into the spot next to Nesta, who presses herself closer to Cassian as the group settles in.

“Right, the game is Truth or drink,” Cassian announces happily, the perverse implication clear from the look in his eye, “Mor you can start.”

Just as Mor begins to open her mouth to speak she is interrupted by the double doors swinging open unceremoniously. In the doorway Azriel leans languidly, he’s covered in a thin veil of sweat and he has forgone the first three buttons of his shirt, exposing the taut muscle beneath.

“I brought a guest,” he says in his cool tenor as the beautiful Female from earlier strolls in, with an air of confidence, verging on arrogance that irks you to no end.

You avert your eyes feigning ignorance until his commanding shadow looms ominously over you. When you crane your neck to look at him he’s already staring intently at you, his eyes meeting yours; soft ochre and flecks of molten gold. The booth strains under his hulking mass as he slides in beside you. You’re nearing delirium when his sculpted thigh presses against yours and the beautiful Female takes her place perched on his knee.

You cast him a sidelong glance and you swear he’s smirking at you. He brings his cup to his lips, drinking deeply before speaking to the group.

“Shall we play?” his voice is dark and laced with menace.

Mor clears her throat before turning to Nesta and asking her first question which Nesta answers with ease.

The group has been passing their questions back and forth along the row and at some point you let the inebriation take hold. Letting go of your inhibitions has you confessing to playing truant to practise with Cass, cheating at game nights and having your own small collection of dirty books stashed away in the library, much to the amusement of the group.

‘Not so innocent now, eh?’ says Mor over a glass of wine.

‘And to think!” exclaims Rhys, cluthicng at imaginary pearls, “I thought you were the good one”.

‘Dirty girl’.

At your side Azriel stiffens against you, his calloused hand sinking beneath the table, his fingers accidentally ghosting the exposed skin of your thigh. You try to catch his attention and in silent protests but he is not looking at you, his eyes are trained dead in front of him as Rhys asks the question.

“Come on then Az,” he starts with a jovial chuckle, “Have you ever had a sex dream about one of us?”.

“I have.” Azriel admits, his voice is loaded with indecency.

Mor sends you a smirk as she points to you and one by one, seven sets of eyes turn on you as you drink.

Azriel still will not look at you.

“Truth or drink,” Mor starts, “Have you ever imagined anyone in this room when reading your one of your books?”.

You swallow hard then. Mor isn’t playing fair at all. You had confided in her your most shameful thoughts and now she was trying to play matchmaker while the object of your desire sat at your side with another woman in his lap.

The eyes of the group linger on you expectantly. You know their game and you don’t care to play it tonight.

“Um I-i,” you start, your voice wavers with uncertainty. You drink deep again and hang your head low in lieu of confession.

As the game continues your mind begins to wander and you abandon yourself to the thought of Azriel. His hands were deliberate and rough against your thigh. His chest and how its all taut muscle and raw power. His low growl as he sinks into you for the first time.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, hm?” the whisper comes low in your ear, his voice is laden with transgressive desire.

Your eyes seek out Mor’s in the small room but she seems all too interested in the game that they are playing now. Instead, you will play him at his own game. Your eyes are trained forward and Azriel turns back.

“Tell me, darling,” he implores you, “who is it you think of?” his voice is measured as he slides his big palm to your thigh.

“All those late nights in the library,” his breath is hot and accusatory against your neck and he sinks hisa calloused finger along the soft flesh of your thigh, “I wonder.”

He lets the implication hang in the air unanswered as the female on his knee draws his attention back to her. She’s fussing with her dress and saying she wants to dance. The commotion draws the attention of the Inner Circle and it’s then you catch Mor’s eye. You must look thoroughly frustrated as she raises her eyebrows at you in question. All it takes is a glance in Azriel’s direction and Mor seems to grasp the situation. She slips from her place between Amren and Emery and begins to move in time with the faint hum of the music next door. Her body is beautiful, graceful and tempered as she turns to the stranger hanging off Azriel’s arm and holds out her hand to her.

“Dance with me, sweetheart.” it’s not an invitation but a command to which the woman obliges happily. You send Mor an apologetic smile as she backs out into the darkness of the club next door.

As the door closes on Mor the group quickly resumes their previous conversations and once again you stare ahead at the paintings hung on the wall, trying your hardest not to look Azriel in his eyes lest he see the truth. That he will be your ruination.

“Is it Cassian perhaps?” he asks, eyeing his friend as he laughs loudly at something Rhys is saying.

Looking at him through half-lidded eyes you shake your head and attempt to put distance between your body and his. He only laughs to himself leaning in closer.

“Mor?” he presses, inclining his head to the door, “Rhys even?” he continues.

“Amren?”, there’s amusement in his tone.

“No?” His hand resumes his assault on your thigh daring to climb higher and higher with every heaving breath you take. He buries his head in the crook of your neck breathing in your scent like it's a lifeline.

“Feyre? Nesta?” you’re silent, as his finger finally reaches the apex of your thigh under the material of your dress.

You look at him now. His eyes are like wildfire and his pupils are blown wide; he looks like a fallen angel. Divine and annihilating. And there, in the sulk of his bottom lip, you are reminded of the pull of your body to his. It’s instinctual. A need.

“Then that just leaves…” you cut him off before he can finish.

You stand abruptly drawing the attention of your friends who all look between you and Azriel confusion written on their faces as you push past him and slip out of the booth and into the night.

It’s witching hour and the club is saturated in hues of inky blue and indigo. The floor is awash with dancing bodies. The atmosphere is oppressive and the smell of lust lingers in the air. It’s savage and indulgent. You brace yourself against the wall, pressing your forehead against the cool surface of the mirror, looking at yourself through dark lashes; shame and arousal still hot in your veins. Your breathing is deep and slow, your cheeks are flushed and your hair falls in haphazard waves around your shoulders. You are no wolf, little girl.

You feel his presence before you see him. He cuts an intimidating figure in this light. He’s tall and hardened by rejection and white-hot fury burns through him. He meets your eyes in the mirror; they’re glinting and profane against the black. He stalks towards you with a resolute coolness entirely his own. His approach is unchrateristically lax. Feigning surrender. It’s a trap. This you know; one you will let yourself fall into.

He’s a wolf and you are a lamb being led to the slaughter.

He reaches out a sculpted arm to cage you between the mirrored wall and his rippling frame. He smiles then as he slides in behind you. He’s all potent power and brute strength that encircles you completely. Shrouding you from view.

His head sinks into the junction between your neck and collarbone and drags his teeth along the skin there. A threat. A promise.

The neon lights colour you in shades of pink and blue and over the blaring music the sounds of drunken whispers are a savage rhapsody in the stilted air. In the reflections the bar is littered with glasses and bottled of wine and at the far edge of the room you can see Mor and the girl that Azriel has long forgotten dancing by the bar.

Suddenly, his hips thrust sharply into your ass and you have to brace yourself against the mirror as you’re pressed flush against the wall. Your shock comes out in a sharp inhale. Azriel chuckles darkly at that.

His hand gently brushes the hair out of your face, gathering it in his fist before tugging at it gently. Turning in his bruising grip you look up at him like you look at the sun. Reverence and agony.

He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and forces your gaze forward.

Arousal pools between your thighs and you press them together desperate for some semblance of release.

“No, darling,” he says, “I want you to watch.” he elaborates tapping the mirror with two sturdy fingers for emphasis.

You make eye contact with him in the reflection. Your gaze is unyielding and defiant as he comes to whisper in your ear again.

“Do you think you can do that for me pretty girl?” your consent is all her needs. You can’t utter a single word but a look passes between you that says what words cannot.

Please.

“Fuck” he says, “I can smell you from here.”

The thought sends rippling waves of pleasure right to your core, the friction of your thighs doing nothing to quell the dull ache for him.

Despite the layers between you, you can feel the hard length of his cock pressing against your ass as he roughly thrusts against you. You angle your hips away from him as he pushes you against the wall a second time, the cold railing digging painfully into your hips.

Azriel frees you from his grip, taking his free hand to tear his member from his leather breeches. The sound breaks through the haze of lust and suddenly you are painfully aware of the people around you. Although, no one has cared to notice any of the depravity that has passed between the two of you. If they have they haven’t said as much.

“Azriel-I” you stop yourself as he looks at you, taking his hardened length in his hand and stroking the head, coating it in the first beads of sticky pre-cum.

Azriel hisses sharply, throwing his head back in unbridled pleasure before taking you in his rough embrace again, searching your eyes for a hint of protest and when he finds none he uses one arm to spin your around so that your cheek is pushed up against the mirror held in place by the pressure of his fingers tangled in roots of your hair.

He hurriedly gathers the swathes of fabric that separate you and in one swift movement presses his naked hips flush to yours. You feel his cock like cool marble against the bare skin of your ass. He lets the material of your dress fall freely now, covering your sin. He uses the same hand to snake under your dress, his hands pressing odes into your thighs as he had before under the table. Only now his hand doesn't stop only climbing higher and higher until-

“Fuck Azriel,” the gasp tears through you as he reaches your pubic bone before sinking lower, spreading your folds, gathering your wetness and drawing it up again to rub slow circles into your most sensitive parts. His circling is deliberate and poised, his fingers knowing what you body craved almost instinctively. It sends electricity through your body, enough to bring you to your knees if not for Azriel holding you upright.

The ghost of a smile graces his perfect face and he presses a kiss to your pulse point.

“I need you to be quiet, y/n,” he sighs into your shoulder as he peppers kisses along the exposed planes of skin, leaving a trail of angry red marks in his wake.

“Can you do that for me?”, he asks, raising an eyebrow in question through the mirror. But it’s not a question. It’s a dare.

You take another look at yourself in the mirror; you’re pressed against it, your eyes veiled with this a desperate ache. It’s almost tangible. It’s intoxicating and all consuming and any notion of shame or self-respect had been abandoned the minute you laid eyes on him tonight.

You could be quiet.

Your vow of silence is all he needs to continue.

He continues down to the curve of your shoulder as his mouth roams freely now. His teeth on your neck feel like divine absolution. Or maybe damnation. All the while the scarred pad of his thumb presses deft circles between your thighs, the contours and ridges of scarred skin providing all the necessary friction to send you into delirium as your orgasm rages like a tempest through your body. His name, one fierce on your tongue comes out broken. You whisper it. Like prayer. Azriel.

“I thought I told you to be quiet.” he reprimands, it comes out in an almost broken pant pressed against the clammy skin of your shoulder.

“If you are,” he offers, “I’ll let you come on my cock.” his voice is different now; no longer the cool, low tenor he wears so well. It’s filled with the dark promise.

That this will be your undoing. Your ruin.

His movement is hypnotic as he takes your delicate throat in his hand, his fingers nipping cruelly at your jaw and the flesh of your cheeks so that your mouth opens for him. You moan gospel around his fingers as your eyes meet in the reflection.

So you will let him ruin you.

He touches you with urgency now as he gathers the shroud of fabric about your waist, letting the cool air fan the tops of your bare thighs. He uses your hip as leverage, angling your body away from his granting him access so that his long fingers trace a agonising line down the seam of your aching cunt.

His length is hard and punishing against your tightness as he sinks into you for the first time tonight. Azriel burns. It’s blasphemy but the thick tip of him fills you in a way that, when he is gone from you, you feel hollow.

He growls in your ear as he is sheathed to the hilt, your walls a velvet vice that flutters around him so beautifully and he swears no one could have foretold that bliss could feel so profane. His hazel eyes blaze golden as he sucks at the skin of your throat. His kiss is vehement, devout, fervent. His relection watches yours and you swear that when his eyes meet yours at the same moment his teeth draw blood from you, you see a God looking back at you. The bite is ravenous and your blood pools like rubies in the valley of your breasts. He moans into your neck, your blood staining his lips and you know there is beauty in the bite.

Then he starts to move and oh Gods!

He fucks like a seraphim. All pleasure and pain; brought together in perfect unison, melting into one another as he begins to seek his redemption in the flutter of your walls around his cock. Scarred hands kiss hymns up your sides. He sanctifies your body. Worships you in the way a devil worships sin. It’s hedonistic and pleasure-seeking. Greedy and his.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he whispers it like a vow into your skin, bringing a hand to flex around your throat before dropping it again, “so good for me.”

You feel the pad of his thumb pressing sharply into your folds, drawing moisture upwards from where his cock threstens to split you in two. His circles on your clit align with the punishing pace that he is fucking you; it’s savage and feral.

“Look at me when you cum on my cock.” he commands.

You crane your neck to look at his face. Devastating and elegant. But he only laughs cruelly, twisting your back towards the mirror. Your mouth forms a perfect ‘O’ as his reflection meets your gaze.

So you watch him. He’s surrounded by shadow and framed by the neon light of the club; his hair falls in raven tresses, the longer stands, becoming damp and curling away from him, his jaw is set like perfect marble and he stands tall and statuesque behind you. He bares his teeth to you, nipping at your ear as he resumes his assault on your clit.

Through the reflection, you can still see the dancing sea as it rages into a tempest as if goading you to reach your peak before the wave breaks against the shore. The liquor runs hot in your veins and your gaze hardens on the woman at the bar and her vulgar cobalt dress.

Azriels breath in your ear comes in sharp rasps that cut through the haze of jealousy as he buries himself in you again.

“Takin’ my cock so well.”

“Azriel I-” The words dissolve like sugar on your tongue as his wild eyes bore into yours.

“You need to come, baby?” he coos in your ear. It’s perverse the way it sounds on his lips.

You nod in his direction, it's desperate and any altruistic desire you may have had is long gone. You’re drunk on his touch and chasing your release above all else. So you surrender yourself to him completely.

“Then come for me.”

“Want to feel you come on my cock, darling” It’s all the permission you need.

Coming undone around him is a fall from grace. It’s desperate; all teeth and tongue as he presses his lips to your bare shoulder blade with an ardour akin to worship. In those moments where your world melts away like some psychedelic fever dream you are reminded of the fervid desire that holds you both in thrall as he fucks you through the waves of your orgasm as it comes crashing down around you.

Muscles spasm and contract and Azriel refuses to yield to the orgasm that tears through you, setting synapses on fire and leaving wildfire in its wake. You brace yourself against the mirror once more to stop your legs from giving way. He takes you firm in his arms, one hand kneading the skin of your hips roughly and the other holding you by the throat as his orgasm begins to take root.

The world frays at its edges as he buries himself so deep in you that you feel the thread that runs from his body to yours go taut. It snaps into place as the hot ropes of his come spill into your tightness.

In the quiet moments that follow he says your name; whispers it. Recites it like poetry. You cast your eyes onto his reflection. He’s looking at you now and there, through dark, romantic eyes you relish in a heaven that only exists when he is looking at you.

You’re not sure how long you stay this way, wrapped around his softening length, as fingers rub delicate circles into the swell of your hips and his lips leave almost kisses running from your ear to the tip of your shoulder.

And then he is gone from you, pulling out of you with a pained growl, as he lets the material that once separated you fall back into place. He smooths the fabric of your dress, his hand firm and calculating as it grazes over the sensitive skin of your hips and ass.

The remnants of your shared orgasm pools between slicked thighs as Azriel comes behind you again, taking you by the shoulders so that you are facing him now.

His smile is easy now and his voice is filled with his usual careful tenor he twists a loose curl in his finger before brushing it from your face as he starts to speak.

“Let's get you home now, darling”

He takes your hand in his and places the other on the small of your back as he guides you through the winding crowds and out into the cool night air.

Velaris at night is beautiful; it's alive. The stars are hung in the sky with care, each a brilliant white that glints against the canopy of twilight and pearlescent cloud and the moon is ghostly and annihilating. From here you can see the House of Wind as it stands monumental on the distant horizon. You could get used to this.

The stirring of the body next to you draws your attention back to Azriel. He’s looking at you again. Like he wants to ruin you. Like he wants to love you.

So you will permit to him put his lips upon yours once again, and let him learn to hold your throat in one hand and your heart in the other.

You know then that he has ruined you.

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